


To Serve and Caress

by orphan_account



Series: To Serve and Protect AU [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-11
Updated: 2010-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt's red Porsche makes him a target for ticket-writing policemen. Officer Puckerman takes the bait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Serve and Caress

The morning traffic report says there's an overturned tractor-trailer on I-75. Kurt hasn't grown up the son of the town's best mechanic for nothing, and he knows all the back roads out of town. He figures the cops will be busy with the wreck, so he'll be able to turn his baby loose on the open road without interference.

He hugs his dad and kisses Carole on the cheek when he has tucked his suitcase in the backseat of the car.

"Do you have to go back so soon?" Burt asks.

"Thanksgiving to Christmas is my busiest time of year," Kurt answers, ignoring the look in his dad's eyes. Kurt has already lost out on the Black Friday sales in the City the day before, and besides, he's had as much as he can take of Lima for the moment. Christmas is only a month away, he reasons, so Burt will barely have time to miss him. Kurt deliberately pushes the memory of his fight with Mercedes out of his head. She has no right to say those things to him. He's worked damned hard to get where he is, and if he is a workaholic, he has good reason for it.

"Everyone needs their holiday couture and I need to get things ready at the studio."

"Drive safely, son," Burt says.

He and Carole stand on the front porch and wave as Kurt pulls the Porsche out of the driveway. The car is his pride and joy – a 1969 Porsche 911S, fully restored, with plenty of horses to give it speed and power. The car is both unique and flashy, with a badass engine that makes the straight boys drool, and usually gets the gay ones out of their pants pretty quickly. The car says that Kurt's concerned about the finer things, but that he's either rich enough to keep the car up, or he's got the knowledge to deal with a thirty-year-old car. The truth is a bit of both. The parts are neither cheap nor easy to locate, and garaging the vehicle in New York is a pain, but working on the car is one of his few forms of relaxation and stress relief. The cherry red finish definitely attracts attention from everyone, including the police force, but Kurt has a lawyer in the City who's in charge of dealing with those consequences.

The 911 takes curves so sweetly that its performance is just about the only good thing about the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Kurt hopes that the traffic and the construction on that cursed piece of highway will be at a minimum on this Saturday. He quickly finds a two-lane road heading east out of Lima. When the city limit sign is behind him, he opens her up, grinning to himself at the growl of the engine as he accelerates.

He settles in for the drive, letting his mind drift. The argument with Mercedes comes back to him, and he sorts through it, not seeing any other solution. She thinks he works too hard and takes no time to enjoy his success. He refutes her claim, pointing out that he hits the clubs every weekend. She comes back with the argument that he isn't happy indulging in that sort of lifestyle. He dismisses it – he's successful, young, and hot, and living in the most exciting city in the world. She has no idea what she's talking about.

Unfortunately, about five miles out of town, he gets tagged by a state trooper on a motorcycle, but Kurt's deep in his thoughts and doesn't notice at first. When the guy hits the siren, Kurt finally surfaces.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles, slowing the car and carefully pulling onto the shoulder.

Kurt rolls down the window with the hand crank and keeps his eye on the side mirror as the officer dismounts from his motorcycle. The cop doesn't remove his mirrored aviators. Kurt finds his mouth going a little dry – unlike most police officers, this one is in spectacular shape and his uniform pants cling to long, muscular legs. Add the high, polished black boots, and the man looks like he just stepped out of a wet dream. Kurt settles his car coat more firmly around his lap to conceal his reaction to the sight.

"License and registration," the cop says without any other preamble.

Kurt sighs, knowing that his lack of attention has put the man in a bad mood. He pops open the glove box and digs out the documents, handing them over without comment.

"Fucking antique," the cops says. "So you get exceptions to all the safety requirements. Do you think you get exceptions to the traffic laws, Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt checks the cop's nametag. "No, Officer Puckerman. I wasn't paying attention."

"You were going so fast I could charge you with reckless driving."

 _Make conversation with him!_ Kurt's brain screams. Policemen usually give lower fines to people they talk to, according to his lawyer.

"Uh, I was wondering if your pants were padded," Kurt says.

"What?"

"Well, the boots clearly protect your legs, but if you got in an accident, your pants could be shredded and you could be hurt."

"Are you wishing ill on an officer of the law?"

"No, no! I'm a designer, have a small studio, and it's just a matter of professional interest. I would never want anything to happen to you. Or any other member of the force. Or anyone at all. I have no evil in my heart. I just like fabric, especially when it's so well-fitted on a nice body."

Kurt shuts his mouth with a click, certain that his babbling has gotten him into even more trouble. He wishes he could see the officer's eyes behind those mirrored sunglasses.

"Step out of the car," Officer Puckerman responds.

Desperately wracking his brain to see if he can remember whether police motorcycles carry dash cams or whether he's about to be beaten into brain damage and then dumped in the nearest empty field, Kurt slowly opens his door, using the time to try to pull himself together. Hopefully there's a camera and this primitive specimen of humanity doesn't know how to disable it. Maybe the presence of a potential witness will moderate his violence. He suspects he's about to get the shit beaten out of him by some homophobic rural cop.

"Hands on the roof. Spread 'em," the cop demands.

"Oh, god," Kurt mutters. "I'm a good citizen, I promise."

Hard hands pat him down quickly, sliding down his legs and digging in his coat pockets. Kurt takes a brief moment to wish those hands were on his body for other purposes. He can feel the strength of them and he imagines the skill with which Officer Puckerman could touch him.

"Like waving a red flag in front of a bull," the cop says, his hands finally resting on Kurt's shoulders.

"What? You mean the red sports car? I know," Kurt says bitterly.

"No, I mean this . . ." Officer Puckerman slides his hands down Kurt's back, stopping to caress Kurt's ass, before slipping around his waist to drag Kurt back against an impressive erection.

Kurt gives a little gasp as he feels the unmistakable evidence of Puckerman's arousal. One arm locks firmly around Kurt's chest while the other unbuttons his car coat, nimble fingers finding Kurt's belly. Kurt is held strongly and securely, and while part of him – the primitive lizard part of his brain – is thrilled with the show of masculine dominance, the more logical part of his brain is shrieking danger at him. He can't stop his whimper though, as a calloused hand draws small circles in the light furring of hair on Kurt's belly just above his belt buckle.

"Say yes," a rough voice whispers in his ear.

"Yes to what?" Kurt asks.

The hand at his waist slips down to cup his groin. Kurt can't stop himself from pushing against the pressure, back arching and hips thrusting. Officer Puckerman keeps him contained with ease and Kurt hardens at the further evidence of the man's strength.

"This," the cop answers.

"What if I say no?" Kurt can't help asking.

"Then I let you off with a warning," Officer Puckerman responds, his mouth moving to Kurt's ear, where he gives the tender lobe a sharp nip. "No harm, no foul."

With his crotch in a firm grip and hot breath on his ear, Kurt is finding it hard to think logically about the situation. He doesn't know if he can trust Officer Puckerman to let him go if he refuses to play. On the other hand, his body definitely wants to find out what the cop is offering.

He grinds his hips backwards without letting his brain actually giving him permission to move. He decides just to go with it. "Yes."

A warm chuckle sounds in his ear. "Very good."

Puckerman quickly gets Kurt's buckle open, and pushes his zipper down. Kurt wants to move his hands to touch the man, but he's not sure that he's allowed to remove them from where Puckerman ordered them. The cop gets his thumbs in the waistband of both Kurt's jeans and his boxers. Kurt puts his legs together to help him get them down.

"Yeah, stay like that, pretty boy," Puckerman says, leaving Kurt's clothing midway down his thighs.

A strong arm wraps around his chest and then Kurt hears the noise of the other man's pants coming open. Puckerman pulls him closer and Kurt feels a thick hardness nudging between his thighs and brushing against the back of his balls. He tightens his legs to give more pressure against Puckerman's cock.

"Perfect," Puckerman breathes, his mouth ghosting along Kurt's ear.

"Please," Kurt whimpers.

He twitches his hands, wanting to touch his dick, which is getting slightly cold in the crisp November air. Puckerman is thick and heavy, making Kurt wish that they had a warm bed nearby. He feels things getting slicker as Puckerman's pre-come lubricates the area. Kurt gasps, desire flaring along his spine.

"Stay still," the cop orders.

Kurt clenches his fists, resisting the urge to squirm himself closer to the broad chest. Puckerman puts his free hand on Kurt's cock, his grip slightly too tight and rough for comfort. Kurt doesn't complain, enjoying the feel of the confident touch.

Behind him, Puckerman moves faster, banging pleasantly against Kurt's balls and perineum. Kurt can't stop his hips from moving in rhythm with the cop's thrusts. He doesn't bother trying to restrain his cries of pleasure. Puckerman increases the speed of his hand on Kurt, who can't stop the gathering tide of pleasure that coils in his nuts and then bursts out his shaft to cover the policeman's hand.

Puckerman stiffens, his hips jerking as he shoots his own load between Kurt's thighs. He rests his forehead between Kurt's shoulder blades, breathing heavily. He lifts his fingers to Kurt's mouth, and Kurt sucks his own come off the policeman's fingers. His own lungs are still laboring raggedly, but he gradually calms down.

Puckerman steps back when his fingers are clean, and pulls Kurt's pants up. The mixture of bodily fluids in them is cold and disgusting on his groin. Kurt makes a sound of protest, but Puckerman laughs softly.

"In you go, Mr. Hummel," the cop says, opening the car door and gesturing to the leather seat.

Kurt turns around to find the man wearing a wide smirk. Kurt wants to show him the bitchy side of his tongue, but he's feeling off balance by the whole encounter. He doesn't want to drive with the mess in his boxers, but he supposes he can stop at the next gas station and change.

He slips into the Porsche, while Puckerman leans against the open window. The officer pulls out his ticket pad and a pen, scribbling something quickly. Kurt hopes it's the promised warning instead of a moving violation. Puckerman folds the paper and hands it to Kurt.

"Drive safely, Mr. Hummel. I hope you've had a pleasant time in Ohio."

Puckerman returns to his motorcycle, his pants looking as well pressed and form fitting as they had when he first stopped. Kurt can't help watching that great ass walking away.

The officer mounts the cycle and eases it onto the road, pulling past Kurt's car and then turning back towards Lima. Kurt sits for a moment, still trying to process what has just happened.

Finally he opens the paper that Puckerman gave him to see what he'd been written up for. To his surprise, a business card falls out of the folds of paper. He picks it up curiously, only to discover that the man with whom he's just had carnal relations is named 'Noah Puckerman' and his cell phone number indicates a Lima exchange.

Kurt taps the card on his chin thoughtfully. It's clearly an invitation to . . . what? See what Noah's eyes look like behind those mirrored shades? Get to know the man better? A chance to explore each other with the comfort of a bed and blankets? Maybe all of the above?

Should he take the risk? He knows without a doubt what Mercedes would say, but it's his life. He has things that he needs to be doing, and the list doesn't include indulging himself with a hot policeman. But the memory of Puckerman's calloused hands on his skin makes Kurt suck in a shaky breath as desire slams through him again.

Suddenly deciding that he doesn't need to be back in New York that urgently, Kurt slams the 911 into gear, and peels out with a shower of gravel. He throws the car into a one-eighty on the deserted road, leaving a layer of rubber on the pavement. He heads back to town, his brain already planning his next steps.

He needs a cover story to give his dad, and then a shower. And then . . . he'll see what happens when Officer Puckerman's shift ends.


End file.
